Step by Step
by RosylaGypsy
Summary: It was difficult for Roger to leave the loft that morning on Boxing Day. But maybe it's time he started challenging himself again, if only to stop Mark's incessent nagging. Rated for language


_A/N: First RENT fic, though probably not the last at this rate. This is nothing really original, mostly just parts of the movie (no I haven't see the stage show. Yes, I do regret this. Unfortunately, I have to take what I can get) from Roger's POV. Beware randomness, assumptions about character, stilted dialogue and lots of (brackets). I'm still trying to get a feel for the characters. Mentions all the canon couples, with shades of Mark/Roger, though it's really more about friendship overall. Enjoy!_

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_1._

Roger hadn't realised he was developing an actual phobia of being outside, until he actually tried leaving the apartment for the first time in eight months. It wasn't crippling; he _had_, on occasion, stepped foot outside the building, but no further that a few metres, and not without Mark standing close by. As it were, he couldn't help but feel jittery as he walked briskly down the street, his skin crawling with an acute uneasiness that bordered on actual fear. It was fucking pathetic.

There were a few people he could blame for deciding to leave in the first place. Collins and his new boy/girlfriend for starters, both wielding blinding cheerfulness like it was a force of nature. Maybe it was just having someone new to interact with, someone who wasn't Mark (or Benny, whom he could do without, or the girl downstairs, whom he didn't want to think about), but he'd felt happier around those two than he had in a long time.

Mostly though, it was because of his roommate. Before he left each morning to go film stuff, or whatever else it was he spent his days doing, Mark would ask Roger if he wanted to come along. Every Goddamned day, as if he actually expected a different answer than _no_. But today after Mark's daily ineffectual 'you need to get out more' spiel, Roger had actually felt kind of guilty about declining for once.

He thought back over the last year. The first few months were dodgy, all cut up and nonsensical like one of Mark's unedited films. Flashes of blood, pain, anger and hellish afternoons on their dirty sofa, soaked with tears and sweat. But Mark was in every scene, his arms wrapped around Roger, sometimes in comfort, sometimes a restraint, his voice persistently calm and stubborn. He never left, even as April took the easy way out, Collins left for MIT, Maureen got her daily dose of worshipful attention elsewhere and Benny washed his hands of the lot of them. Mark gave him everything he could, which wasn't really a lot, but more than he deserved. And all he'd ever asked Roger for in return was to leave the loft. Just for a day. Just for an hour.

_Stupid Mark._

Fighting the millionth urge to turn around and go home, back to the sanctuary of their shitty little loft, Roger gritted his teeth, hunched his shoulders against the wind, and pressed on.

_2._

Slipping quietly through the door to the community centre (he used to fling doors open like they should apologise for being in his way), Roger felt profoundly uncomfortable. With such a small group of people, the hall felt large and empty, and his feet echoed as he approached.

But hell, at least the place had heating.

As he drew closer, he noticed Mark standing outside the close-knit circle, camera in hand. How typical. All the same, the look on his face as he spotted Roger was worth the nerve-wracking walk across the neighbourhood.

And so, on Boxing Day, in a hall decorated sparsely with cheap decorations, amongst a group of strangers like him, sandwiched between a gay anarchist and a drag queen with a heart of gold, with his best friend looking on proudly (Jesus, he looked like his mother), Roger found himself celebrating Christmas after all. And kind of liking it.

_3._

He'd intended to go home after the meeting was over, but the others were bound to put up a fight, and he couldn't be bothered opposing them. So instead he spent the rest of the morning tagging along with Collins, Angel and Mark, letting himself be ushered and coddled like a little kid with no sense of direction.

Like most bohemians, Collins had no regard for individual boundaries or social norms, and Angel apparently had even less. Watching them on the subway, mingling with the other passengers, showing unreserved affection for each other, just looking happy to be _alive_, Roger couldn't help but grin along with them. He used to be like that – physically open, couldn't sit down without his legs getting everywhere, casually slinging his arm around whoever happened to be beside him. (It only got worse when he was drunk, to the point where Mark had accused him several times of molestation. As if he hadn't enjoyed it.)

Now he shied away from touch, or at least, from people outside his immediate group of friends (Angel got a pass by seeming to exist outside the realm of silly conventions like distrust or discomfort). Once he realised he was automatically keeping himself within a small boundary, hands folded in front of him, he made an effort to loosen up. But he couldn't shake the subconscious, 8-month-old feeling that his hands were stained, and that everything he touched got dirty.

Well, dirtier. This was New York, after all.

_4._

"So, why today, Roger?"

"What?"

Mark glanced up from the mess of cables – yes, somehow they'd gotten messed up _again_, though he wasn't sure which of the girls was to blame for that – and fixed Roger with a shrewd look. "I've been nagging at you to leave the loft for months. What makes today so special?"

He shrugged. "It's Christmas."

"Nah-uh. Christmas is over, that excuse is no longer valid."

"Collins is back."

"Collins was back yesterday. That excuse has also expired."

"What are you, a fucking bank statement?"

Mark grinned at him. "No, I'm Benjamin Coffin III."

Roger snorted in amusement. "Get rid of the hair and I might buy it. Strangle yourself with the scarf and I'll pay extra."

The filmmaker pushed his glasses up his nose. "If he tries anything funny at the protest, then I might be tempted."

"Here's to that."

Comfortable silence reigned for a moment while Mark fiddled with wires, Roger sat cross-legged behind him and watched, wishing he had his guitar to pluck at, and Joanne paced the room, talking on her phone with exaggerated patience and looking stressed. He almost felt sorry for her.

"That should do it," Mark said finally, dusting his hands off. "At least until Maureen tries to rearrange the lights again, in which case, Joanne is on her own." He sat back next to Roger with a weary sigh. "So. Why _are_ you here?"

Roger rolled his eyes. "Again? Geez, if I'd known you'd complain this much I wouldn't have bothered."

"Cut the bullshit, you know I'm not complaining. Did the ghost of Christmas past tell you to stop being such a Grinch?" He smirked, teasing. Roger rolled his eyes.

"Look it's not such a big deal, alright? I just . . . it felt like a good time. I was feeling restless. Now would you drop it already?"

Mark's face softened a little. "Alright, alright. But just so you know . . . I'm proud of you. We all are."

He just shrugged in response. Mark seemed to accept that. He stood up, stretching, and muttered something about Maureen being late _again_, seriously, did she want his help or not? Then he glanced back down at Roger and asked, too casually, "So, are you going to invite Mimi to the protest?"

The songwriter groaned. Like a dog with a fucking bone, he was.

_5._

Truth be told, he did feel guilty about kicking Mimi out of his apartment last night. But it was for her own good. The last thing he needed was to destroy another young girl's life. The last thing he needed was another junkie in _his_ life, and he pointed this out to Mark, who'd spent the better part of a year trying to keep Roger away from that shit.

Mark had told him that maybe he wasn't giving either himself or Mimi enough credit. That just because she was young, didn't mean she was weak, and he _knew_ Roger wasn't weak, whatever he thought about himself. Unspoken between them was the memory of April, and how she had been weak. He'd loved her with all his heart, but there was no denying that.

He had fumbled for a retort, come up with nothing, and snapped at Mark to mind his own damn business (this coming from the guy who couldn't say no to his old girlfriend, who was a) a slut, b) a bitch, and c) dating another woman?) But try as he might, he couldn't get the girl out of his mind. Her fearlessness, her stubbornness, her dark eyes glittering with candlelight and the promise of a new start.

Well, he did owe her, he supposed, for being such a dick. And once Maureen finally showed up, went bananas over his re-emergence, and threatened him with bodily harm if he even _considered_ missing her protest, Mark had all but shoved him in the direction of the exit.

"I don't even know where she is!" he protested lamely. "Her apartment's always empty during the day."

"So start looking!"

"Alright, fine. Just to keep you happy."

Just for Mark's sake. That's all it was.

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_Thanks for reading! Concrit is appreciated._


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